AFTER YEARS OF ESTRANGEMENT, KOBE HAS WON BACK MY RESPECT

Kobe Bryant hasn’t been doing much winning lately. At least not by his or anybody who has ever called themselves a Lakers fan’s standards.

He hasn’t won a second-round playoff series since 2010. He hasn’t won a regular-season MVP since 2008. And this year, despite sharing the court with three future Hall of Fame teammates, he has barely managed to win 50 percent of his games.

But in my mind, Bryant did score one significant victory over the past dozen-or-so months: Me. Yup, Kobe Bryant won me back.

I never thought Kobe would be able to regain my respect, but then again, I never thought he’d have to. Born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, I was as nutty a Lakers fan as Mr. Nicholson himself.

I cried when that eighth-seeded team blew a 2-0 lead to the Suns in ’93. I was rubber-cemented to the radio when Magic Johnson returned in ’96. And during my college orientation in June 2000, while my peers were chasing coeds, I was watching Shaq and Kobe fight for their first championship (much to the coeds’ relief).

It was the start of another golden era for the gold and purple, and one that I would embrace with friends, family and fanatics for years to come. But then came a nasty breakup. I no longer saw a prodigy in Bryant — I just saw a punk.

This isn’t about what happened in Colorado, because I have no idea what did. This is about an athlete nicknamed “Black Mamba” who was suddenly spewing nothing but venom.

When Phil Jackson wrote in his book that Bryant was “uncoachable,” Kobe’s demeanor did little to refute the accusation. After the Lakers fell to Phoenix in the first round of the 2006-2007 playoffs, Bryant, feeling as though he lacked quality teammates, grumbled that the front office had to “do something and do it now.”

When Lakers brass refused to trade Andrew Bynum for Jason Kidd in 2007, an embittered Kobe asserted that the team had to “ship (Bynum’s behind) out” before asking “Bynum? Who is that kid anyway?”

And when it appeared that the organization would make no moves satisfactory to his palate, Bryant publicly cried his desire to be traded.

Like a rich kid sobbing that he didn’t get a Corvette for Christmas, Kobe’s frustration warranted zero sympathy. The man had polarized his fan base and repulsed guys like me — a feeling he reinforced via his subzero disposition toward the press when I began covering the team.

Don’t get me wrong, I still respected Kobe’s once-peerless ability. But my respect for the man hitched a ride on the 10 East seemingly never to return.

Until this year.

I don’t know why exactly, but Bryant’s personality appears to have migrated from the North Pole to the Hawaiian Tropic. It’s not that he’s fuzzy or cuddly or anything (you can’t turn a piranha into a puppy), but off the court, he’s as engaging, effervescent and entertaining as ever.

In January, Bryant joined Twitter, where he not only self-deprecates (he posted a picture of a brick wall after a particularly woeful shooting night), but chided a tweeter for trying to use the word “gay” as an insult.